


hey kid u wanna buy some dick

by spookyfoot



Series: amnesty [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Amnesty, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rough Draft, improper use of a flight simulator, yes i am using the doc title as my real title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26088442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: “You seem tense.” Shiro circles around the back of the pilot’s chair and curls a hand around Keith’s shoulder. He digs his thumb into the place where Keith’s shoulder slopes up and curves into the elegant line of his throat. It’s a hard knot of muscle. Keith’s going to need something stronger than a massage. That’s fine: Shiro’s never backed down from a challenge. That’s why they’d paired the two of them, after all; to see if they could tame one another where everyone else had failed.Shiro leans in, hovers just alongside Keith’s ear.“Focus, cadet.”“That’s Lieutenant,” Keith shoots back, eyes never leaving the holo-screen in front of him.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: amnesty [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893115
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	hey kid u wanna buy some dick

**Author's Note:**

> AGE GAP SHEITH AGE GAP SHEITH AGE GAP SHEITH SHUT UP I'M VALID

Takashi Shirogane is thirty-four years old with a host of Galaxy Garrison pilot records, grey hair prematurely webbing his temples, and a freshly served set of divorce papers. 

The last one is less of a self-definition than it probably should be. 

In the end, Shiro had agreed it was better for them to part ways. Time and distance and disagreements had cut deep trenches on either side of a battlefield neither of them were willing to cross. 

At least, not to the extent the other needed them to.

As he signed them, Shiro thought that it was a shame the papers had text on them, ideally, they’d be completely blank; a true white flag of surrender. 

But like a marriage, divorce required both parties to agree, which meant Adam had to sign his name on the dotted line, too. 

//

The night, Shiro drinks to get drunk like he hasn’t in years. He’s drinking with Matt. One of the few friends he was allowed to keep in the divorce. He takes a sip of his [Long Island Iced Tea], a drink he orders without shame because god damn it tastes good and does the job and he and tequila had parted on bad terms a few years ago after an incident with a broom, a hoverbike, and Iverson’s beret. 

Not his finest moment, but this one might be giving it stiff competition for [preceding atmosphere [you know what i mean, like the mood preceding the ‘oh god why did i do this thing???]}. 

“Hey, Shiro, I gotta go,” Matt says, looking up from his phone screen. He looks worn and exhausted but also genuinely apologetic that he has to leave.

“It’s fine, Matt,” Shiro says, swirling the straw around his half empty drink. 

Matt pauses as he’s half standing, and gives an awkward little shrug. “ I’m sorry, really. Just. Katie needs me.” He holds up his phone like a plea. [why does she need him tho? do i need a reason?]

“Don’t worry, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Shiro says. It’s a clear dismissal, and Matt leaves, with only a momentary backwards glance before he passes through the doorway and into the parking lot outside.

Shiro sighs, and stares at the dregs of the drink left in his glass. Then he downs the rest of his drink and makes a beeline for the bar. He needs another, on the double. Especially if he’s going to spend the rest of the night alone. 

There are bodies pressed against every seam of the worn, dark wooden bar that wraps around the far wall, harried bartender juggling bottles, filling various glasses. Shiro leans on the bar to try and catch his attention, but in a way that doesn’t look like he’s asking for it. Begging for it. 

_ No _ . He shakes the thought free just as it makes itself known and glances around. There. At the far end of the bar, there’s a lean line of muscle with a tangle of dark hair drawn back into a loose braid, a few strands curling around his ears. Shiro can’t catch a full glimpse of his face, but the soft smooth skin just below his jaw makes Shiro want to put [his mouth on it. To leave a mark.]

The man turns, and Shiro meets his eyes for a moment before the bartender comes round his side of the bar to take his order. Shiro gets another Long Island Iced Tea, drinks it down as fast as he can reasonably stomach it. It hits him quick and cool and strong, the burn passing from his mouth, down his throat, and then settling in like a pool of liquid fire deep in his gut.

He turns towards the man at the end of the bar, considering. 

_ Why not? _

He doesn’t remember anything else after that, nothing but blackness, and the throbbing headache the next morning.

None of this explains why he’s been summoned to Iverson’s office to stand beside a surly, sharp-eyed officer. Newly minted, from the over-starched look of his uniform. 

“Shirogane,” Iverson says, “this is Lieutenant Kogane, your new flight partner.” 

Shiro has a million thoughts on that; namely:

That Kogane is close to usurping all of Shiro’s records

That Kogane is only twenty two and somehow his new baby sitter

That Kogane looks just as pissed off about this as Shiro is, but he’s not doing anything to hide it

Cresting over the top of all of these thoughts is a prominent  _ oh hell no. _

//

It’s a long, uncomfortable conversation that Shiro only hears in fragments. They’re the only ones he needs to, though. It’s all the information he needs to suss out that the Galaxy Garrison’s decided to put training wheels on his slow but inevitable decline. 

Shiro doesn’t need anyone’s pity and he doesn’t need a handler.

Shiro stays after they’ve been dismissed to talk to Iverson. It’s a frustrating, useless conversation. Iverson uses whatever bureaucratic red tape lies within reach as a shield against Shiro’s anger, but it’s like a newspaper left out in the rain, bleeding and bound to disintegrate eventually. Or at least that’s what Shiro tells himself. He has to keep believing that there’s some way out of this; it’s not in his nature to give up without a fight.

Apparently it’s not in Kogane’s nature, either.

Shiro stalks out of Iverson’s office and pointedly lets the door slam as it swings shut behind him. 

Kogane’s still there, leaning against the far wall, arms folded over his chest and hair falling into his eyes. He meets Shiro’s gaze without hesitating, and he holds it, clearly unwilling to blink first. 

There’s something about the set of Kogane’s jaw that reminds Shiro of the man he used to be, but he shakes it loose, shakes himself free of whatever obligation he’s about to rope himself into by dint of imagined obligation and what Adam would probably call his self destructive tendencies. 

( _ Don’t think about Adam.) _

Kogane scans him from top to bottom, either considering or sizing him up. Or both. Whatever he finds there, it doesn’t shift his expression. “I’m going to beat every single one of your records,” Kogane says, defiant as anything. 

“So you heard my conversation with Iverson,” Shiro says. Kogane flushes but doesn’t deny it. “I hope you enjoy them while you can,” he says, before stalking away. 

And Shiro thinks that’s that. 

(It’s not.)

//

Shiro quickly finds out that Kogane is meant to be glued to his side every waking moment. And maybe some that are less than wakeful, too. 

It may not be Kogane’s fault but Shiro's hurting in more ways than one, and he needs to kick his wounds. It’s a mess and one he’s not going to stand for. So he gets drunk to the point standing seems like a myth.

“This is insulting,” Shiro says, hand curled around a mug of beer. He shouldn’t be sharing how he feels this freely but he’s had two more beers than he should have and his tongue’s been shaken as loose as his sense of security. 

(Four drinks in and he’s more honest with himself than he might be otherwise, honest enough to admit that this whole thing was build on a foundation of quicksand, his feet dancing across the surface as fast as possible to keep from sinking.)

“Yeah, we know,” Matt says, shooting a look at Katie. “We’ve heard it. Multiple times. This evening.” 

“They’re trying to force me out,” Shiro says. Matt sighs. He should have known that Shiro wasn’t going to listen anymore. 

“Did you ever think that maybe they were trying to find a way to help you keep going?” 

No. Shiro hadn’t thought that. And he won’t think that. Because it’s not true. 

He knows it’s not. He’s spent too many years working his way up the ladder not to be familiar with every rung—going up  _ and _ down. 

No. Kogane’s nothing more than a shackle, a babysitter if he’s being kind, but it’s clear that by saddling them with one another, the Garrison’s not being kind to either of them 

Kogane’s barely old enough to be in this bar. 

The thing about being an admiral is that they raise you up the ranking ladder only to use it as a reason to ground it. It’s a promotion to becoming obsolete. At least for the things that Shiro actually wants to spend his life doing. 

Or continue spending his life doing. 

//

He almost doesn’t though, almost fucks it up right when he needs to prove himself the most—more than he did as a cadet, even when he had youth and the glow of freshly set records on his side. 

He wakes up late and he wakes up alone, on a set of high thread count sheets he’d bought to share with someone else. His head hurts and he feels like death and god, he’s getting too older for this—but that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? That he’s getting too old for the Garrison’s good graces and they’ve sent someone younger along to be his training wheels into what’s essentially an early retirement. 

He makes himself a dismal breakfast of dry toast and coffee, somehow managing to char the bread at the edges and leave the middle with a distinctly underdone doughy center. 

The sun burns bright and merciless and right in his eyes during his drive into work. He wishes he had his sunglasses but he's acutely aware that he'd left them in the other car, the one that Adam took with him when they left, their things split like an unevenly cracked fortune cookie, where the only prize inside were the divorce papers the both of them were [by this point desperate for.]

Even if they'd loved one another once—and they had—Adam’s love was [concerned to the point of being overbearing], and Shiro already too aware of of the things shackling him to the Earth, couldn't help by try and break free of what felt like one more weight around his ankles.

[see if you can find incidents in their relationship that will show this instead of telling it, but in a concise way so that the reader doesn't lose track of the current scene]

So he suffers through it, which proves to be enough of a metaphor for his current equilibrium that he decides the sun really isn't that bad and continues heading straight towards the distant horizon. 

A quick glance at his watch shows him it makes a good thing he changed into his greys before he left the condo. Once he sells that damn place he's going to move back on to the base—moving off base had been Adam’s idea in the first place. Something about a work life balance. But it was hard when both dudes were demanding all of you, shredding you into unequal pieces, leaving nothing fit yourself. 

Shiro shoves the thoughts aside and hurries towards the east hangar bay. They should be in—yeah; Shiro can already see the long, lean line if Kogane’s body resting against the plane’s belly.

“You’re late,” Kogane says, a pair of aviators perched on the tip of his nose. Shiro can just see the violent, unnameable hue of them peering over the top rim of the sunglasses. He reaches up to tighten his ponytail. 

“You have to be aware of a meeting to be late,” Shiro says. Kogane’s already taking his babysitter role too seriously and Shiro can tell this is going to end badly.

Without waiting for a response, Shiro turns and heads for the cockpit of the [some sort of plane].

He doesn’t have to look to know that Kogane’s keeping pace behind him. 

“You just gonna pretend I’m not here the whole time,” Kogane says, like he already knows the answer. 

And the answer is exactly what he probably expects—Shiro wants, burns, to say yes. But Shiro’s also spent so much of his life burning to prove people wrong. He’s not going to treat Kogane any different. He won’t let himself. 

He can’t. 

Except:

One thing is clear as the session goes on: he lets himself. 

Keith is all hairpin turns and sharp edges. It’s not that Shiro doesn’t have edges of his own, but he’s long since trained himself not to let them show. 

He’s nothing like the pliant, “yes sir” of a cadet they’d paired with him previously. It hadn’t taken much to lead him to the previous flight partner they’d assigned him into in the 

//

Shiro wants the next session to be better. It isn't It's not less full of animosity, full of the roughest parts of himself that he can't shake free. The parts that he's not let out into the daylight in years, the oldest, moth eaten parts of himself that he thought he'd left behind when he'd left everyone else's simulation scores in the dust.   
  
Apparently not.

  
  


//

[actual relationship progression]

//

It’s hard not to notice the way that Keith’s hands and eyes both linger. They stick around longer than they have to, longer than social niceties dictate they should. If there’s anything that Shiro’s learned about Keith over the course of their partnership, it’s that nicieties aren’t his bag. Keith, much like his flying style, values a direct approach but isn’t afraid to finesse it when he needs to. 

And he clearly feels he needs to. 

Shiro, however, likes to take his time. At least when it comes to taking his partners apart at the seams, savoring the feel of them coming apart under his fingertips.

“You seem tense.” Shiro circles around the back of the pilot’s chair and curls a hand around Keith’s shoulder. He digs his thumb into the place where Keith’s shoul der slopes up and curves into the elegant line of his throat. It’s a hard knot of muscle. Keith’s going to need something stronger than a massage. That’s fine: Shiro’s never backed down from a challenge. That’s why they’d paired the two of them, after all; to see if they could tame one another where everyone else had failed. 

Shiro leans in, hovers just alongside Keith’s ear. 

“Focus,  _ cadet. _ ”

“That’s  _ Lieutenant, _ ” Keith shoots back, eyes never leaving the holo-screen in front of him. 

But the curl at the corner of his mouth says something different. It says: 

_ Oh. So this is the game we’re playing _ .  _ Bring it on, Old Timer.  _

“Strong words, but we haven’t even gotten started,” Shiro replies. He lets his fingers trail across top of Keith’s back and dance over the nape of his neck as he circles back to stand in front of Keith. 

Keith’s tongue darts out to swipe over his bottom lip. Then he looks down and flexes his fingers where they're wrapped around the controls before tightening his grip again. 

Shiro [trails] his fingers up to the pulse point just beneath Keith's ears. He nudges at Keith's jaw to tilt his face upwards, forcing him to meet Shiro's eyes. 

Keith scoffs, and tosses a strand of dark hair out of his eyes where it’s fallen out of his braid. He’s all brash energy but he can’t hide the way he swallows thickly as Shiro’s fingers trace the line of his jaw. “You’re all talk, anyways.” 

Keith rolls his eyes. “Whatever you need to think to make yourself feel less threatened.” 

“Who says I’m threatened?” 

“Pidge. Matt. The way you showed up late and hungover the first time we flew together.” 

There’s nothing he can do about it now, but he’s kick the past version of himself for letting those cracks show. “Maybe I just didn’t care what kind of impression I made,” Shiro replies.

“Because you’d already given up.” 

“You think you’re hot shit, don’t you? But you’re all talk.” Shiro asks. He presses his thumb to the plush swell of Keith’s bottom lip, doesn’t let his face show the burst of heat that follows when Keith’s mouth falls open, when his breath fans, wet and hot, across Shiro’s fingertip. 

Shiro pulls back. “ _ Patience, _ ” he says, pulling away. Then he continues his path all the way around the pilot’s chair until he’s at Keith back. He leans over, making sure to press his chest to Keith’s shoulder as he presses a few buttons on the center console, causing the screen to light up. “Let’s see what you got.” 

“I don’t need to prove myself to you,” Keith says. Still, Shiro hears the way his breath hitches when Shiro presses even closer.

“If you’re as good as you say, you won’t even need to break a sweat.” 

Oh, he’ll break a sweat. Shiro will make sure of it. 

Shiro leans over to key parameters into the sim. He’s enjoying feeling the hitch in Keith’s breath the closer he gets. 

He’s pretending like he’s unaffected, but the truth is that the proximity is getting to him too. 

Keith's warm and tense under his palms, the kind of tense that makes Shiro burn to see just what he'd look like with his face gone slack with pleasure. 

_ Focus, Shirogane.  _

There's plenty of time for that. 

It's a familiar set of cues as the screens prepare the simulator’s cockpit for “launch”. It’s cues Shiro can, and has, recited backwards, almost in a full sleep. 

It’s something Keith should know by heart, something that should be a soothing, calming familiarity, a sign that he’s about to [live his dreams] and take flight. 

But there’s a telltale hitch in Keith’s breath, a [noticeable thrum of his heartbeat, pulsing at the side of his neck, just a few beats too fast.] Shiro pulls his hand away from the controls and runs it down the front of Keith’s chest, stopping just above his waistband. He can feel Keith’s abs tense under his palm as he draws his breath in. Shiro dips his hand just low enough to fiddle with the button on Keith’s slacks. To feel the way that Keith shift up, unconsciously trying to get Shiro’s hand closer to where he really wants it.

Shiro slides back around so he can stand behind the pilots chair, and ghost his breath over the side of Keith’s neck. “Patience yields focus.”

“Or blue balls,” Keith mutters, but he tightens his grip around the controls. It’s not doing anything to hide how hard he is in his pants, but than, Shiro doesn’t think Keith’s trying to hide it at all. If anything, he’s trying to make sure he’s catching Shiro’s attention. 

And he has it, but there’s no fun in letting him know that. There’s no fun in making it easy on him, either.

[some other sort of transition]

Keith’s halfway through the course when Shiro drops to his knees and settles between Keith’s, placing one hand over the top of either of his knees and spreading his legs in a wide “v”. 

“Focus.” 

[something teasing]

Shiro palms Keith through his uniform slacks, feels the way that he’s already half-hard without even a touch—and about to be fully hard thanks to Shiro’s careful [attentions.]

Keith makes a little sound—somewhere between a moan and a sigh and Shiro’s immediately desperate to hear him make it again. And louder. As soon as possible. 


End file.
